


my soul's been fed tonight

by orphan_account



Series: sterek getting stoned [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, pot brownies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which pot brownies have been made, and Derek maybe thinks Stiles is cute or something. It's whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my soul's been fed tonight

**Author's Note:**

> THESE BROWNIES WERE MADE WITH 2OZ OF POT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and tonight has been the best/weirdest night i've had in a while. come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://breenwolf.tumblr.com) to get the joke i GUESS.

Derek’s bedroom at the loft isn’t very big, but it’s _whole_ which is much more important. There’s a window on the west wall, and the master bath is attached on the east side. The space between is largely bare with floorboards that are prone to creaking underfoot, the ceiling stained suspiciously along the back wall, and the ceiling fan a temperamental, finicky bitch.

Stiles likes it a lot, though. Has started spending more and more of his days here since he got home for summer break. He told himself, initially, “Don’t be that guy,” but, really, who is he kidding? His life has been one obnoxious cycle of attention deprived and attention deficit for as long as he can remember. It’s nice to know that he can have that on demand, now.

Affection on tap, he thinks with a wild giggle.

“It’s totally kicking in,” he says, his voice raspy and mystified. Derek makes a quiet sound of approval.

“Good for you,” he grumbles.

“Aw,” Stiles mocks. “Not my fault you can’t appreciate pot brownies.”

“I _can_ ,” Derek grunts, shifting his legs a little so he can nudge Stiles’s hip with his knees. “If you’ll _give me some_.”

Stiles considers it with a quiet hum. But Derek looks good like this, spread out on his soft cotton sheets, his hair messy and his mouth slack even as he tries his best to exude that lowgrade irritation Stiles is so fond of nowadays. He looks good with his thighs parted for Stiles, his knees bent and his fingers tapping against his bare thighs while Stiles sits high and straight on his knees in the space made for him.

There’s almost no light coming in through the window anymore. The sun is down, and the stars are out. The light that filters into Derek’s room now is from the living room below – from the adjoined kitchen where Stiles had been not fifteen minutes ago.

He has a plate stacked with brownies  a little to his left, just out of Derek’s reach, and he’s been eating them in careful, picked-apart measurements since he first came upstairs to wake Derek up from his nap. An hour and a half ago. Derek’s slow to wake, when he gets the chance at having a preference, and the more time Stiles spends around him sleeping, the more Derek seems willing to wake up like a normal person – a little grouchy, completely out of sorts, and - most of all – pliant. It had been too easy for Stiles to crawl between his legs, kiss him stupid, and say _I had an idea in AP Chemistry today_.

Under normal circumstances, that sentence would have been met with a resounding, _No_.

Instead, sleep-stupid and kiss-drunk, Derek had just said, “Does this have a point,” and looked at Stiles’s mouth in such a lewd way that Stiles kind of _had_ to kiss him again.

So, Stiles likes kissing. It’s not like that came as a surprise to _anybody_.

“They were hot,” is his excuse.

“Maybe for the first fifteen minutes,” Derek huffs.

Stiles considers him, then the plate of brownies. “… How long have they been sitting there?”

Derek makes an unbelievably frustrated noise and drags a hand over his face. “Over an _hour_.”

“No way,” Stiles says, gaping. “Are you shitting me?”

Derek responds with deadeyes – a look of such perfect, absolute _are you fucking shitting me_ that Stiles can’t help but grin, wide and warm.

“I was totally gonna feed these to you,” he says, picking up a brownie and breaking it apart with his fingers.

“Well, you didn’t,” Derek mutters. “You just sat there and ate them yourself and told me to _watch_.” His expression darkens. “Do you seriously not remember _any_ of that?”

Stiles doesn’t hear him; Derek’s words get lost behind a guttural sound that he makes as soon as he puts part of the brownie in his mouth. “Jesusfuckin _Christ_ these are good.”

“Oh my _g_ —”

“No, really, they are, like, _so_ good.”

Derek, apparently fed up, sits up so quickly, so smoothly, that he would probably have shocked Stiles into falling backwards, on his ass, if he hadn’t gotten his fingers tight around Stiles’s hips first. The muscles over his stomach bunch and tighten, and that’s distracting as hell.

Not as distracting as the way Derek bites half of the brownie piece that Stiles has between his thumb and forefinger though. He just fucking _goes for it_ , and he chews slowly, contemplatively, his eyelashes lowered and his jaw working carefully.

“Holy god,” Stiles breathes. “I want to do _unspeakable things_ to your mouth right now.”

Derek glances at him, holds his gaze, and swallows.

“Unspeakable,” he repeats, dryly.

“I know, I know,” Stiles hurries to say. “I’m hard-pressed to think of something I want to do to you that I wouldn’t talk about at length, too, to any willing or unwilling audience I could possibly find – but whatever those things are, that are so filthy that I _will not speak them_? I want to do them. To your mouth.”

“Cute,” Derek snorts.

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps, his cheeks flushing. “I’m – I’m not _in my right mind_ so you can’t just say shit like that.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, seemingly surprised. The smirk that takes over his face is so smug that it simply can’t be contained to a smirk, and it becomes this mocking Cheshire Cat grin instead. In the light of Derek’s _teeth_ , Stiles feels a little dizzy.

“No, shut up,” he says, already knowing what’s coming. He shoves the brownie at Derek’s face, wanting to keep him quiet, but Derek jerks his mouth away.

“Say shit like _what_ , Stiles?” he asks, coy.

“I’ll kill you,” Stiles warns him, curling into himself and wishing he had the leverage and state of mind to crawl off the bed now.

Derek gets an arm hooked around Stiles’s hips, his fingers dipping just below the waistband of Stiles’s boxers, and he angles his head up to meet his eyes. He looks predatory and gorgeous, but it’s hard to appreciate when Stiles can sense impending embarrassment.

“I can’t call you _cute_?” Derek asks, and Stiles’s entire brain melts.

“ _Ugh_ ,” is kind of what the choked noise that leaves him sounds like. He starts to push away, the heel of his hand against Derek’s hulking shoulder as he presses back against Derek’s arm, willing it to give way.

But Derek is preternaturally strong and graceful, and when he gets determined, he gets really fucking determined. So it’s nothing at all to curl his body around Stiles, arch his body up, and turn Stiles over onto his back so Derek can hover over him, one knee wedging between both of Stiles’s.

Stiles says, “I hate you,” and throws an arm over his face to hide the blush creeping up there. “A lot.”

Derek just laughs quietly and presses his mouth to Stiles’s, his forehead pressing against Stiles’s arm.

“I think you’re cute,” he whispers, and Stiles makes a pained noise. “Even when you’re mad at me.”

“Fuck you.”

Derek moves his mouth, presses a wet kiss to the underside of Stiles’s jaw. “Especially when you’re mad at me.”

“You suck so much.”

A kiss lands on the front of Stiles’s throat. “And when you’re like this.”

“Oh my god, is my _utter humiliation_ doing it for you?”

Another laugh – the breath is wet and warm against Stiles’s skin, and he can’t help but groan at the sensation. “When you’re high. It’s like that day in the Jeep all over again.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whines, his whole body clenching up. “Would you _stop that_? I don’t know how to handle you when you’re being _romantic_.”

“I have a few ideas,” Derek says, and he crowds further into Stiles’s space to hitch his leg more over Stiles’s hip than just between his legs, rocks against the curve of Stiles’s hip.

“Ohmygod _fuckme_ ,” Stiles all but yelps. “I – holy shit.”

He wraps his free hand around Derek’s knee, hiking it up all the more so he can rock up against his thigh. Derek makes a satisfied noise at that and brushes his nose against Stile’s collarbone.

“ _That fucking tickles,”_ Stiles hisses.

Derek does it again, and Stiles’s arm jerks. With shaking fingers, he smooshes the brownie against the cut of Derek’s cheekbone, smearing the chocolate there until Derek draws back and starts to eat the sticky remnants right off of Stiles’s fingers, his mouth wet and careful, the heat of him perfect.

Stiles moans. “You’re indestructible,” he complains. “Every move I make is countered by _raw sex appeal_. You’re _cheating_.”

Derek hums and sucks tenderly at Stiles’s forefinger, cleaning all of the chocolate off in the most erotic way possible. No one’s cheeks should look so good hollowed out, and yet here’s Derek – looking like sex on a stick fresh out of a nap with brownie smeared all over the side of his face.

Stiles falls into a trance a little bit, watching Derek and breathing heavily but otherwise doing nothing else. When Derek pulls off one finger, Stiles feeds him another, watches with a glazed expression as Derek sucks and licks it clean, occasionally glancing at Stiles with those clear green eyes of his.

It leaves Stiles’s hand sticky with spit and his dick hard as a rock. He doesn’t have much leverage with Derek’s leg across his hips, but he writhes up against Derek’s flesh, and Derek rocks against his hip again. It’s messy for a few minutes before they fall into a rocking rhythm with Derek jerking upward as Stiles arches his back. The movement helps Stiles pull down his boxers, and he eventually gets a hand curled around Derek’s knee, helping to ground him even as he feels like he’s flying away – as he’s being pulled under by some unbelievably strong current.

Derek, by the look of things, is no better than him. He’s panting and making these harsh, cut-off appreciative sounds. Stiles can feel the heat and shape of his dick through Derek’s underwear, and he’s about ready to throw Derek off so he can get him completely naked when Derek completely withdraws himself and sits back.

Stiles glares at him and says, “ _Hey_ , now,” with a huff. “I was getting off there, you know.”

Derek rolls his eyes and wiggles backwards, his knees dragging on the sheets. Stiles watches him, warm and a little confused, but when Derek rubs his chocolatey cheek against Stiles’s lower belly, Stiles makes a displeased noise.

“Not cool!” he barks.

But Derek ignores him in favor of licking the chocolate away, just like he did before. Only now he’s dragging the flat of his tongue in long, hot licks up from the cut of Stiles’s hip bone to the dip of his bellybutton, and it’s _devastating_.

“Holy shit, yes,” Stiles almost shots. “So on board with this plan, yes, God, _yes_.”

He fists his fingers in Derek’s hair, not giving a single shit about the chocolate on his fingers and how much of a bitch that’ll be to clean out, later. It’s Derek’s problem, anyway. Stiles is much more concerned about getting that mouth – hot and wet as it is – around his dick as quickly as possible.

But Derek is slow. Even when the chocolate is gone, he mouths lazily at Stiles’s skin, sucking at it and releasing it with quiet wet pops. He leaves no marks, just a little spit here or there, and it dries quickly on Stiles’s overheated skin.

“Motherfucker,” Stiles grits out, his teeth grinding together. “Mother of fucking _Christ_ , Derek.”

Derek draws back and says, “Roll over,” and Stiles can’t think of a single thing that Derek would want him to roll over for that he _wouldn’t_ want to participate in, so he does. His legs go a little crazy with his own enthusiasm, and he probably kicks Derek once or twice, but, fuck it, he doesn’t care.

He situates himself as best he can on his hands and knees, but he doesn’t have the stamina to hold himself up on his hands – he’s a little dizzy from the high, and he’s already feeling overstimulated and loose from head to toe, so he drops forward onto his forearms and clings to one of Derek’s pillows.

Derek runs his hands down Stiles’s sides appreciatively, his nails scratching lightly at his skin and sending goosebumps up all over Stiles’s back and thighs. He shivers, and Derek makes a gentle hushing noise and presses a kiss to Stiles’s tailbone.

“I think you’re very cute,” he says in a low voice.

Stiles groans like he’s dying and presses his burning face into the pillow, willing himself not to think about it, not to think about _Derek_ calling him _cute_. It’s _embarrassing_. He’s not some – some girl who needs to be told that –

“ _Holyshit_!” he shouts when he feels Derek tongue against his asshole. “You’re fucking _evil_ oh my g- _aaaahd._ ” He breaks off with a shuddering breath, and he presses his face back into the pillow.

Derek’s mouth is – fuck, it’s _wet_. And he works Stiles open with his mouth, first, then the pressure of a single finger a few seconds later, when he can. Stiles writhes and jerks, incapable of saying much of anything though he can’t seem to stop making strangled sounds of pleasure. This is embarrassing, too, because he can _hear_ Derek’s mouth against him, and every time Derek pulls back to take a breath, Stiles pushes back in a silent demand – _get back here and do that some more_.

And Derek just – he fucking _does_ , and it’s amazing.

He hums against Stiles’s ass, works a second finger inside of him, and licks against them and Stiles’s rim, and the pressure of them is familiar but bizarre, the way this always is, and Stiles ruts back against it blindly, seeking more and embarrassed by his own greed all at once. His need is like this great, physical thing – a pressure against his lower back, pressing him on to take, take, take.

Derek is so willing to give, makes hungry little noises as he devours Stiles whole, that Stiles feels like he might be dying. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of porcelain shattering, but he’s so close to the edge that he can’t find it in himself to give a damn.

“Derek,” he whines, finally finding _one_ word of the hundreds that he wants to be saying right now. He arches his back to try and convey them. Derek twists his fingers in – hard – and _presses_ , and Stiles throws his head back and moans, his mouth slack and his eyes watering a little bit. “ _Derek_ ,” he says, more forcefully.

When Derek gets a hand around Stiles’s dick – _yes, yes, yes, holyshit **yes**_ – Stiles comes apart completely, jerking and hissing through his teeth as he comes, his toes curling so tightly he thinks he might break them. He collapses, and Derek lets him go flat against the mattress, falling into his own come and not possessing the energy to care.

He’s dimly aware of the sounds of Derek’s hand on his cock, the shaking, panting breaths that Derek takes. Stiles grumbles, pleased as punch, when Derek presses close and nudges his cockhead against Stiles’s hole, and he cants his hips up into it, using the last of his strength to push back against that pressure.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek groans, dragging his cock up a-ways, and then he’s coming, too, in hot stripes that hit Stiles’s back. When he falls, he’s half on top of Stiles (they’re careless this way, both enjoying the pressure of each other post-sex), with a leg between Stiles’s and his breath in Stiles’s ear.

When he catches his breath, Stiles turns to look at him.

“See,” Derek says, winded. “Cute.”

Stiles groans. “ _Shut up_ ,” he orders.

 

 

 

Later, they pick up the pieces of the shattered plate, forget the five-second rule, and eat the remaining brownies.

Derek doesn’t get high – not even a little – but he feeds Stiles every other piece that he pulls apart, and he tastes like chocolate the next morning when they wake up in his bed in the safety of his simple little bedroom of his squatter’s loft.


End file.
